There's Thunder All Around Me and There's Poison in the Air
by Niji Hitomi Kabra
Summary: At the turn of the twentieth century Grimmjow had a different name, a job in the coal mines of Appalachia, and a fiery haired Irish lover, but when the shaft collapses, it sets the formerly brunette German on the path to become the Sexta Espada. Warnings: semi-AU, implied yaoi, character death (sort of), language, implied Ichi/Hime (Formerly "But You Go")
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Konnichiwa, minna! Niji and Silva here again with another short story. The whole thing was incentive for Silva to finish her final. The picture was originally inspired by The Chemical Workers' Song by Great Big Sea, and then the picture inspired the thought that maybe that's how Grimmjow died! And what's Grimmjow without his strawberry? So, here we have Guntar Jaegerjaques and Eamonn O'Duffy as the past lives of our favorite Panther and Berry. If anyone's curious Guntar is German for warrior, Eamonn is Irish for protector, and O'Duffy is Irish for black or swarthy. At least according to Behind the Name.

* * *

A moment's hesitation was all there was before the fight had to start. Killing the Shinigami was supposed to be easy. Stabbing the black haired one had been, but the other...a youth, slim build, sienna eyes burning hotter than the sun, and that hair...bright, fucking, orange hair. How long had it been? Since the world stopped making sense? Since that stupid explosion, in that stupid shaft, with that stupid crossbeam, and the stupid canary that fell into the bottom of its stupid cage. How long had it been...since he died? He didn't know and there was no more time to thinking, or contemplate or even reminisce. He had a Shinigami to kill...who'd have thought it would be that hard?

Half a world away and over one hundred years in the past, the foreman of the Penn's Woods Coal Company, Unit # 615 called out in his brusque, choppy English, "Jagger-jack-kez! Pick up yo pace! Stop eye-minding your wife."

"Ah! Git over yerself, Jonas. He ain't been oglin' me. He jus' can't keep up since I rammed 'im one last night." The young Irishman grinned for all he was worth, joining the crew in ribbing his shaft partner.

Around the pair, the rest of the day's workers broke out in rowdy laughter, each of them paired off with a rope, a lantern, two pick axes, and a canary. The early dawn light was just enough that they didn't need to waste oil to see where they were going before descending into the network of sooty tunnels and railroad tracks that carved their way through the rounded mountains in and around the City of Steel.

The young German sucked his teeth and leaned on the shaft of his pickaxe. "Ah, s'a'right," he grinned, big arm muscles bulging as one of his dark eyebrows rose and waggled lecherously, "It'll be yer turn ta git shafted t'night, _ja_? After all, I haff ta make you pay for dis, I'll be behind schedule!"

His frosty blue eyes glittered in what little light there was, and he faked a limp as he swung the axe up to his shoulder accompanied by a brand new chorus of laughter, the entire group of them marching purposefully down the main tunnel.

"_Aye._ Cuz it's m'fault? I can't help ya can't take yer eyes off me." The other deliberately drew his hand through the sunset orange strands that beyond even his accent, marked him as a Son of the Emerald Isle.

He too shouldered his axe, and grabbed the canary at his feet, while the rest continued to laugh and carry on until the foreman called out again. Daylight was wasting, even if it had only just broken above the horizon, and they had a train car to fill to make quota by the end of the week. So, slowly, in the pairs they were assigned the miners took to their shafts, breaking off one pair at a time, until it was only the German and the Irishman striding deeper into the bowels of the Earth. These two always took the deepest shaft, and the joke around camp was because they were lovers, wanting to have privacy to be together, in spite that ginger claimed to be married. They were teased about it, but what they couldn't prove, wouldn't hurt the unlikely duo.

The German was secure enough in himself to be okay with the teasing, but for all his rowdiness and tendencies toward bawdy jokes, he actually was a private man. All jokes aside, if anyone asked, what happened in his bedroom—or out of it as the case often was—was nobody's business but his own. As the world turned pitch, he took the end of his cigarette and lit the lamp. No point risking tripping and breaking their necks on a support beam.

"Ya know s'totally yer fault," He teased as he snorted out a misty cloud, dropping the affected limp. "Yer do tha' t'ing wit'cher hips dat makes me nuts."

"I was born ta dance, it's in me blood. B'sides, ya do that thing wit'cher arms that I can't resist. I hafta git back at'cha sum'ow." The Irishman chuckled and brushed his shoulder against the larger man. "Y'know...I'm still a wee surprised ya take th' ribbin' like ya do. Thought ya'd be all ACK NINE BITTER SHANE!" His attempt at German was horrible, since it was both nonsense, and slurred in his atrocious replication of his lover's accent.

Laughter came from deep in the black-haired man's belly and echoed around the mine. Men deep in other tunnels heard it and smiled—it was an infectious laugh. "_Ja_, und tha' is soo effective," he managed around snickers. "It jus' makes de ribbing vorse. Und you know I am a calm man," he added, grin stretched from ear to ear as he leaned ever so slightly into his partner, best friend, and lover. "Vat about you? De last Irishlander I met, I asked him about de Schwule, und he vent all, 'Ach boot a doon lake laddies a lake lassez," he attempted to imitate the Irish accent and failed just as bad as his lover did at German.

It was all the smaller man could do to keep a hold of his axe and the cage for the canary as he laughed right along with the echoes. "_Aye, aye_. Well, let's just say ya make me a better man? An' that was Scotland, not Ireland. But I c'n see where ya get yer ideas. M'Da's the same way."

They were about to the end of their tunnel, so the Irishman hung the birdcage on its hook, and held out his hand for the lantern to hang opposite the bird. He turned the hood so it actually pointed up the way they had come. It made it more difficult for them to see, but it made it even harder for anyone else to see them, which meant as soon as the tools were down, the ginger could do what he'd been dying to do since they woke up that morning. Living in a camp of twenty-some men all piled on top of each other made it nigh impossible for anything to happen between them, except in the damp, cool tunnels where no daylight had ever shone. To make up for it they always worked twice as hard, but it was nothing to a pair of bare-knuckle boxers.

Snickering, the taller male handed over the lantern and let his own axe hit the dirt, big hands already reaching for his partner's belt and running along the edge as he gave a seductive growl of sound that sounded like it came from a wildcat's throat. His mother-tongue always sounded like that, but especially when he was, ahem, fired up.

"Ya al'ays sound like th' _Cat Sidhe_...I like't." Reaching up, the ginger's long fingers entwined in the strands of black the same shade as the mineral they harvested at the base of his lover's neck. He pressed himself against the larger man, licking his lips as the scent he woke up to every morning washed over him. "Mmm, an' ya al'ays smell s'good too."

Then he was kissing the other, a needy, begging exchange between them, that was necessary to swallow the moans he would otherwise be using to broadcast exactly how he felt about his partner.

The German's thick arms wrapped around him and hauled the lithe body against his, a growling moan leaving his chest as he kissed back fiercely, passionately. He was staking his claim, meeting the other's need, and pouring his very soul into that kiss. He put it all into every kiss—in their line of work, men dropped dead of nothing every other day. Hale as an ox one moment, dropped like a downed bird the next. He never took a single moment with his lover for granted—he wanted him to always know how dear he was. That he would give up anything, everything, for him. This man was his world. He would rather give up his left arm then see him come to harm.

Being lifted off the ground brought the Irishman's mile-long legs around his lover's waist. Someday, he swore in his mind every time this happened, someday they would have a real bed, in a real room, where they could take their time and be as loud as they wanted to be without fear of being discovered. He ground his hips against the planes of muscle beneath him and groaned at the friction against his, technically still, morning wood. Those strong hands, and that sinful mouth, it made him thank the Lord every day they were still alive. The brunette brought them slowly to the ground, that thick burly wall of flesh cushioning them both as he let himself thump to his back, never taking his mouth from the other's except to breathe.

"_Ich liebe dich, mien Schatz_," he murmured into his cheek before kissing him again, repeating the sweet phrase over and over again as he wrangled the other's pants down, undoing his buckle and both big hands diving down them to fondle his _schatz's_ morning need.

The ginger gasped, "_Tá grá agam duit._"

His hands flew to join his lover's, if only so they could pleasure each other, the buckle coming undone easily under his nimble fingers. But just as he wrapped his digits around the thick length, a screeching made him jump. There was low rumble, something like the growl of wild beast, and all around them something hissed. Though, more scary than the noise, was the sudden cessation of noise. His sienna irises darted to the cage. The canary...she wasn't there...

"Eh...Guntar? I think we shuld..." Then he began to cough.

Guntar, ever-quick concerning such things, was on his feet and pulling his love up as well, dragging him, running—but he could feel it, feel the rumbling of the Earth all the way up from the balls of his feet. He was carrying him now, but the earthquake was faster- there wasn't going to be enough time. He already knew it, knew it in his bones, in his heart, in his soul. There was nothing else to do. He hugged the light of his life harder, stealing one last peck of a kiss.

"I love ya, Eamonn," he breathed. Then he took the slighter man in both hands and slung him as hard as he could, throwing him clear of the shaft just as the rock ceiling came tumbling down.

"NO!" Both hands had left his hips before he even knew what he was trying to catch. "GUNTAR!" He screamed in his native Gaelic, cursing the gods, Heaven, Hell, the king of England, and any other person or concept he could think of as he scrambled to try and get back to his lover.

The ceiling was collapsing, miners everywhere were yelling and dirt choked the air, but all Eamonn saw or heard was the way the tunnel had sealed itself on top of the one person who had ever made him feel like he was something special. Hands, very similar to the ones who'd just left his body, pulled him from the darkness, in spite of the way he fought to get back. He shouted to them in his native tongue, but they kept him from even taking a single step.

Jonas grabbed his face, filling his sight with the foreman's craggy features. "Boy! Mick-boy! He's gone. He's dead. Jagger-jack-kez saved joo life. Is not'ing we can do for him. I sorry. I know you lov'ed him, but must let go now. He is dead before we reach him."

"No! No! We hafta try!" The ginger pulled against the Mexican and the Asian who held him, but sagged after a few half-hearted tries, sobbing.

He knew as well as everyone else, even if they all poured their efforts into clearing the tunnel, not only could each and every one of them join the fallen German, they still wouldn't reach him in time. Their drive for privacy meant he was just too far down to reach before his air soured, and choked him, if he wasn't already crushed by the rocks and timber.

The big German's large bone structure and great strength was just enough to hold out a few moments. He couldn't feel anything below his waist, and his chest was compressed so hard he couldn't take any but the shallowest mouse-breaths, but he persisted, every sense straining to see if he had succeeded. He could hear, very, very faintly, as though very far off and muffled by cotton, the melodic tones of his little treasure's native tongue.

"_Kann nicht mal...richtige schwöre..._" It was a pointless thing to say, especially in his last moment, but it was true. Damn musical language couldn't even produce a proper curse. But he could let go now...Eamonn was safe. He had at least...managed...that. He let his eyes slide shut and breathed out, rock dust swirling. He did not breathe in again.

That compression in his chest, like being under water only worse. Heavy and...wet? His nightmare had never been wet before? He gasped, sitting bolt upright, sputtering. Panicked breaths forced his ribcage to its limits as his body fought to drive away the paralyzing sense of suffocation. His eyes slowly constricted to see his surroundings—white sand, blue sky that never moved, giant pillars of red and white and black. Ah, yes, Hueco Mundo, Los Noches. He flexed his hands, realizing he'd slipped out of his resurrection, and unconsciously his left slid down his front, down the scar his reincarnated treasure had given him in their first fight, all the way down to the hole that stayed, even long after the support beam had stopped impaling him. He heard Pantera in the corners of his mind growling and snarling in German, and he laughed, loud and hard and long.

"ISTH THAT ANY WAY TO THANKTH ME FOR THAVING YOUR LIFE?!" The shriek from his right only had him laughing harder as the small skull-capped Arrancar threw fit about how he'd woken up and flung her from his chest.

"Oi! Shut it." He grinned and she pouted. "How long've I been out?"

"Months. I dunno. Long enough. The otherth need your help. You gotta thab the Quinthy before he cutth Mr. Hat-dude down." The small girl glared.

"Alright, alright. I'm movin'. Why've I gotta save th' damn Shinigami?" He climbed to his feet dusting himself off and straightening things, because where one Shinigami was, the one he truly cared about was sure to be there somewhere.

"Cuz, he helpth Istygo." He hauled her up to his shoulder and gave a look, then launched into Sonido.

It was quick work, and the orange-haired bint that was both the reason he had both of his arms and the reason he had the mask on his face, healed him up completely before dashing into the tent the blonde Shinigami had set up. Stupid deal about not killing them off or some shit he didn't quite understand, and he was sure he was going to be tricked. All Shinigami were like that. He could hear them talking, the princess chick was all excited about something.

"Huh? What are you guys doing?" He tried to enter the tent, only to be blocked by the half-Mexican dude that reminded him of the one guy that was always paired up with their only Asian. He glared, and then he heard it! His treasure's voice! It didn't have the lilting Irish brogue anymore but he'd know it anywhere, "That voice! Kurosaki?! Kurosaki, you shit-stain, you're there aren't you?!"

The blonde Shinigami whipped around, "No he's not!"

"DON'T FUCK WITH ME I HEARD HIS VOICE!" He roared.

The Shinigami in the hat cried out, "Like I said, he's not there! Sado-san, Inoue-san! Use that and chase him out of the tent!"

"YESSIR!" The princess bitch exclaimed as she and the half-Mexican crowded the entrance, their powers aiding them in holding him back.

"GUAH! QUIT IT YOU SONS OF—!"

He had to dodge and run for a bit, not wanting to violate the terms of the deal by calling Pantera to get past them, but there was nothing going to keep him from getting into that tent to see his treasure! However, as he finally burst through the fabric, the stupid Shinigami with his stupid fan and hat was waiting for him and he already knew his treasure was long gone. So, he merely growled and stalked back out of the tent to 'meditate'—he _refused_ to call it pouting, no matter what the tiny Arrancar child said.

* * *

**A/N 2:** Here's the translations if anyone is interested, though they are thanks to Google Translate, so...I can only guess they're right. XD

German:

Ja - yes, yeah, ne  
Schwule - gay  
Ich liebe dich, mein Schatz. - I love you, my treasure.  
Kann nicht mal...richtige schwöre... - Cannot even swear...right...

Eamonn's botched German:

ACK NINE BITTER SHANE! - Ach nein bitte schön - Ah no please very much!

Irish (Gaelic):

Aye - yes, yeah, ne  
Cat Sidhe - the King of Cats out of Celtic Mythology, something of a fairy, and based on a breed of wildcat native to Scotland.  
Tá grá agam duit. - I have love for you. —literally but used in context as I love you.

Guntar's botched Irish (Gaelic):

Ach boot a doon lake laddies a lake lassez - Ah but I don't like boys, I like girls.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Ok, minna, so this story has taken on a life of its own, and decided that it didn't want to be fanfiction anymore. As such we won't be able to post it here. Once we have something cohesive we'll be posting it, probably on Deviantart, or possibly Tumblr? We aren't sure yet, but unfortunately it can't be here. Thus, because what we're currently writing doesn't mesh with what we've already written, this is all there is. I know, I know. It's not enough but trust me the other version is MUCH better with a bigger cast and more complicated characters. If anyone's interested I've got some character descriptions I can post after this chapter, but it's technically breaking the rules. So, let me know if you wanna know more about the original fiction this story has become, and enjoy what's left of the fanfiction it had been.

Also, this is raw, and un-Beta'd. All the editing this has had is some minor formatting. So, please pardon the grammar and spelling errors. Ja ne.

* * *

The edges of his senses flickered and the feline within his mind growled in his mother-tongue. What the fuck was Kurosaki doing this time? Glaring out at the, once again, successful substitute Shinigami-hybrid, Grimmjow felt the ears of his resurrection fall back against his neck. Oh yes, celebrate and cheer, cause a huge disturbance by just being there, with the Shinigami, discounting his assistance, and with _her_. He felt his azure eyes slide over to the light auburn haired woman who was failing at concealing her obvious enjoyment at being so close to her precious _Kurosaki-kun, _and his mask itched. His brows drew together when Pantera grumbled that he was only wasting his time. How bitterly they both knew that in spite of the events that had happened so long ago, the fiery haired male who had been, and always would be, his _Schatz _would always go to her first. What they'd had as lovers so long ago could now only exist in memories and only he had them. So, he growled, standing up from his place outside of the orangette's circle of friends and stalked off to lean against the wall of the First Division's barracks like he wasn't surrounded by hundreds of people who wanted to kill him.

Ichigo's body jerked- somehow, he didn't know why, but something had, had triggered him, and...as though he was viewing someone else's life through a misty haze...he could hear a deep, growling voice. Black...hair? Thick muscle...and water. Splashes, different from the nearby pond, and that low voice growling words he didn't understand in his ear while a higher, lilting voice- that sounded eerily similar to his own- responded, again and again, almost _in time_ with the water. What was this? What was happening, whose memory was this? Was it a memory? Was it a vision? He didn't know, but it hurt his head. A lot. He pressed the heels of both hands into his eyes, groaning at the sudden vicious pain in his skull and ignoring all his surroundings.

Deep in his meditation, the Sexta didn't even notice as his mind played the memory over and over again. As far as he knew, he was the only Espada to have an inner world that had nothing to do with either their sword spirits or the desert of Hueco Mundo. No, the blunette's mind was filled with the scene where that beloved memory had taken place. Just days before the tragedy that placed the hole in his stomach, he'd taken his precious lover to a secluded lake, The water had been freezing, but they hadn't cared. He could still almost feel the way the lithe Irishman had coaxed him into the water, regardless of his personal opinion of it. He leaned back within his mind, feeling the grass between his fingers, listening to the lap of gentle lake-waves on the shore that was more stones than beach, and feeling the sun, because only when he thought of his _Schatz _did the skies of his mind clear and eternal night became day. Blissfully unaware of his external surroundings, he never realized his tail curled out into the doorway he'd just used to exit the stifling scene a moment before.

Ichigo tripped over that tail as he shoved his way through and out of the crowd, suddenly needing _desperately _to be alone. He was Ichigo...no...he was Eamonn...no...he was...who was he? Where was Gunter- no, wait, Gunter was dead, and _fuck _his head hurt, had he gotten into the german's vodka stash-? No, dammit, he was _Ichigo _and he didn't drink! Wait, who was Ichigo? Fuck, who was _Eamonn_? Head spinning, unable to keep himself straight, literally, he tripped right over that tail and went down, unable to even break his fall- he hit the ground jaw-first, with a resounding _crack _that, for a moment, he wasn't sure if it had been his bones or his teeth. Eamonn cursed, loudly, in Gaelic, and Ichigo followed him up in Japanese, curling into a ball and cradling his jaw and chin.

Grimmjow snapped back to awareness, staring at his feet, his tail lashing. The pain would have been enough, but those words, in that accent, from _that_ mouth...he growled, low and dangerous. "What the fuck ya playin' at, Kurosaki?"

"Shut the fuck up! We don't need you distracting us!" Nearly every other word had an Irish accent, and he bared his teeth the way Eamonn often did when he was aching for a cigarette, but the way he rolled to his feet and tried to shake it off was entirely Kurosaki. "Our head hurts, and the cheating whore won't leave us alone, but we think we saved her lover, and we _really_ don't need to deal with angry Espada right now, okay?! We want Guiness- wait no, I don't drink, no booze- we want to sleep and stop hurting, leave us alone!"

Pantera flared in his mind and his heart clenched painfully. "_Scheiße!_ Look at me, damn it!"

Grimmjow caught the younger man's shoulder harshly, narrowed eyes searching the face in front of him. For a moment, he contemplated dismissing his resurrection but the feline reminded him that he'd need the extra speed if the fire-hair decided to take off.

They snarled at him, eyes dark and pained, _"Iúl dúinn dul! _We hurt! Leave us alone, _na naomh-damanta salach heiseán!_" Shaking his head, Ichigo launched into flash-step, not wanting to deal with this. He already had too much going on in his head, he couldn't handle another kami-damned thing! Not tonight!

Like a shot, Grimmjow was after him. "Kuro-" He cut himself off and thought for a moment. If he approached Kurosaki like he usually did, all he would get would be his usual response, but if the flashes of the Irishman were really memories coming back, just maybe he could...He licked his lips, and called, emphasizing the accent he hadn't used in over a hundred years, "I haf never known you to run from me, _mein Schatz_, und I von't let you start now."

That did arrest him, for a moment, extremely confused as the two parts of him warred. Eamonn recognized that accent, but Ichigo recognized the voice and they were at odds about the owner. He faltered and stumbled in the air, hands going to his head. "Christ...saints take't...I...Gunter..." the sheer pain and longing on that name was enough to shake Ichigo, to make him resume bolting. "We said to leave us alone! We- we cannot deal with this now, just- jes' leave us ta soort it out, willye?"

The pause gave him the edge. Decades of hunting as a large cat had given the deceased German the reflexes and knowledge that enabled him to swing wide to the left and tackle the young man who was at once both his pride and his prey. "_Nein!_"

He knocked them into the brush at the base of the big cliff overlooking Seireitei, rolling with his treasure until he had the smaller male pinned beneath him, holding his hands about his head and using the long almost prehensile tail to pull the deadly butcher knife from the orangette's back. He growled again, and glared, though once he was certain he had a good hold, he dismissed his resurrection so that his face was the one he knew now was tormenting his former lover's mind.

"Talk to me."

"How can we when we don't even understand what's happening?!" Ichigo's voice cracked, even when he and the spirit invading his brain were in agreement. "All we know is it hurts and you're involved and so is Orihime _the whore_," Eamonn threw in, "and I want it to stop!"

"Well, stayin' away from the bint would be a start." Grimmjow sneered, spitting the word he had picked up from the very same man under him long ago. "As fer th' rest," The speech pattern from the last century was easier and more practiced than his native one had been, "I don't know how ta help. Somethin' tells me it isn't s'posed ta happen, but you, bein' you, nothin' that's supposed to happen ever does."

The pain reflected through those eyes that were so familiar to him, cracked the icy shell he used with the rest of the world. Any anger he had left over from seeing the Visored go after the princess was long burned off, now that he knew even in this incarnation she was not a favored mate. This left him with only the pain of having had to watch for a century, alone, while the man who had so thoroughly been the other half of his soul was reincarnated and pitted against him in a senseless war. So, with those things crossing his furrowed brow, the Sexta released one of Ichigo's hands to draw his fingers down one lightly tanned cheek, tracing a long-remembered line where freckles had once dotted that skin.

He flinched. He couldn't help it- Eamonn remembered that familiar gesture. It hurt them both, because those freckles weren't there anymore. Eamonn and Ichigo were the same soul, but not the same. Eamonn mourned his life as he realized he wasn't really _alive_, just sort of sponging off of his own soul like some strange parasite, and it hurt Ichigo to realize he had once been a man with a love and a life and that man's husband needed him and he could not be the Irishman.

"...It hurts," they said at length, eyes closing to try and prevent the tears from leaking down his face. "We remember...but we are not who we were. It is confusing and painful. Especially when m' _leannán_ needs me."

"I think yer overlappin' yer lives. I've missed ya, yeah, but fuck," He sneered, sitting back on his heels with his arms crossed over his chest, with familiar pride, "I don't _need_ ya. I've got on just fine. Ya always needed me more. Can't drink fer shit, can't swear right, could barely hold yer own in a fight, an' ya think I need you? HA!"

Ichigo's lip curled. His eyes narrowed. And suddenly, he was all Eamonn. "Ah really? Sah. Fine. I'll leave th'babe ta 'is discovery o' life then. Since I'm th'needy bitch 'ere." His sneer was downright poisonous. "Even tho' e's on th'ripest edge o' makin' th'biggest mistake o' 'is life wit' a bint. Bu' fine. Since _ya don' need me_. Feh. Should'a known betta." His voice dropped along with his shoulders. _"Agam nach bhféadfaí diúltú ach an deis do amháin breathnú deireanach ar mo leannán ..."_ Then the irishman was gone.

Ichigo blinked, rubbing his head. "Ooow. Why am I suddenly...cold..."

Pantera roared in his head and his winced physically from the sound. Too long had he buried those feelings, and under too much front did they live now, but it was like he'd been dunked in the lake in his mind. The years he spent stalking the ginger, watching his wife run around on him, swallowed by guilt and longing until it had torn a hole in his stomach where the support beam had ended his life, and then he hid behind the mask that grew on his face. He knew full well he was responsible for killing the woman, and he knew that if the Irishman hadn't returned home when he had, the bastard child would have followed its mother. He'd killed her lover too, not that he'd been rid of the Black Irish fucker. But through it all one thing had remained, nagging at him and pulling him to carry forward, to fight harder, to push through...his treasure. Lying was something he was just too good at doing anymore, and the ache in his midsection called out as keenly as Pantera's cursing.

He leapt to his feet, releasing Ichigo completely, unable to keep the panic from his face. He tried to glare, but it was desperate and disbelieving. "_Sie können nicht weg sein! Ich verlor dich einmal, und ficken, wenn ich Sie wieder verlieren werde. Verdammt noch mal wieder hier, Eamonn!_"

Ichigo seemed to shrink. Eamonn's knowledge was still within him, and while he didn't know the exact translation he knew from just the tone and the harsh gutteral noise of it it was Not Good. But he still didn't feel the Irishman, and spread his hands a little helplessly. "I don't...hear him. I'm sorry."

"_Verdammt!_" Grimmjow swore again, stalking away and resolutely trying not to give in to the way Eamonn's disappearance reminded him of both his own death, and the Irishman's many years later. He glared, growling deep in his chest like a caged panther. Eyes landing on the Visored, he jabbed his finger at the boy, ignoring Pantera's warning. "You. What did you do that brought him back in the first place?"

He clambered to his feet, brushing himself off. "Nothing. I just sort of randomly started dreaming his life. Snippets here and here. I didn't know he was _there _until tonight, when Orihime sidled up to me and he started screaming at me in...whatever language that was. As far as I know, she's never hurt or betrayed anyone, much less married one and then run around on them." He was rubbing his head, and the lack of interjection at Orihime's mention was what drove home the lack of Eamonn's presence.

The Sexta found himself unable to look at the young man who so keenly resembled his lost love, "It doesn't matter. Yer welcome, I guess. Fer drivin' him off." He started to walk away, then turned slightly, "Just...don't get involved wi' her. She thinks she loves ya, but she doesn't. Soon as Emo-Fucker shows up ag'in y'ill be left in th' dust. S'why he was always wi' her when ya kicked his ass."

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking confused. "I...didn't want him gone...I...he..." he stopped trying to explain. What would it matter to an Espada who hated his guts? "...nevermin'," he said instead, turning to go, but...on that word. That single word...an _accent_ had leaked through. An accent the purely Japanese young male would never have acquired anywhere. Perhaps Eamonn wasn't gone entirely? He tended to storm off- but he also tended to never go far.

"He what?" The Arrancar hoped that it hadn't come out too harshly.

"Nothin'," he repeated with a roll of his shoulders. He'd wanted to know him. The man had felt...familiar. Like someone he ought to know. Like someone he _wanted _to know. "He jus' din't seem like th'kind any'un'd wan' buggerin' off."

Grimmjow had to close his eyes to stop the well-up of emotions he'd denied for so long, but no matter how much he willed his body not to react, he couldn't stop his mouth. "He wasn't. He was the kind ya keep around, th' one ya held onto no matter how much it hurt ta see him hurtin'. He was...smart, an' funny, an' better'n that _hure_ ever d'served."

"Again wit' calling her a whore, really. We all know she's fecked Ulquiorra and'll be marryin'im when 'e shows up- an I saved 'is ass so he _better_ show th'ell up. C'n we stop talkin' 'bout 'er?" His hands were on his hips, feet braced apart, as he scowled. You could practically see the coal dust on his cheeks and the lantern flame in his eyes despite his shinigami garb. "Whatever she did in'er last life, she ain't dun nothin' in this'un." His tongue rolled, and he realized, rather abruptly, he was searching for a cigarette. Why? He didn't smoke. He shook his head and rubbed his forehead and the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. "...I think I oughter- oughta-_should_go home now," he enunciated carefully, softly. "I want to lie down."

"_Ja_." It was hard not falling back into that speech pattern, hearing the lilting accent that tried to give him more hope than he wanted to let himself feel. "See ya 'round, Shinigami."

He should've known better. Pantera had warned him, and as usual he didn't listen. It seemed he never could when it came to the reincarnation of his treasure. He shoved his hands in his pockets, toying with the device Urahara gave him that supposedly made non-officer Shinigami think he was one of them. He guessed it worked, because he hadn't been attacked since he arrived with the rest of the group that had taken down Juha Bach and his stupid army. He sighed, starting walk off, back the way he'd come, berating himself for even getting involved with the Visored in the first place. He knew it would only bring up memories of a time that was best left forgotten. Regardless of the way the sunshine in his mind only ever appeared when he thought about the Irishman, and ignoring that the only other things he remembered about his life were steeped in darkness.

"Oh...since you...knew him...um. You know what_ 'Tú mo ghrá' _means?" His tongue rolled over the strange syllables perfectly, pronouncing it exactly as it should be.

Grimmjow winced, hard. "_Ja..._" He hesitated, a pained expression creasing his forehead, "If ya ever hear him again...tell him..._auch Ich liebe dich_."

Something that was _not _moisture made the corners of his eye-markings shimmer in the Soul Society sunlight, and he continued to refuse to look at the Visored, his left hand curled into a fist so tight his whole arm was shaking.

Ichigo paused. "...if you know what it means...can you tell me...why he..." he swallowed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Why he says it, over and over, in every memory? Why no dream goes past without him saying it a thousand times to the man I see? Why-" his voice cracked, "why he made me promise to- to-" his throat closed and his hands formed fists.

"To what?" The Sexta unconsciously rubbed his left forearm with his right hand. The Visored was not the only soul who'd lost markings in the cross over from those lives, and he dearly missed his tattoo.

He shook his head. "Just tell me what it means," he demanded instead, refusing to think about that _damn_ promise. How could he keep it? How could he ever, ever keep his word, when he couldn't even keep track of his thoughts?

"No." He ran his tongue over his teeth in a motion that was duplicate of what Ichigo had caught himself doing not a minute before. "Ya wanna know what it means that badly, tell him ta get his pansy ass back here an' face me like a man."

"Oh, yeh, like I got control o' th'feckin' basser." When he realize what he'd just said he flushed strawberry red and slapped a hand to his mouth. "Holy- I just- Goddamnit! I need to get my shit straight, I'm calling _myself_ a bastard now," he groaned with exasperation. Then an idea occurred- and Gunter would recognize that expression. And he would quail from it.

When Eamonn- and Ichigo, it turned out- got _that _look, horrible, horrible things were/are sure to follow. Always. 100% of the time.

"Eh..." Grimmjow took a step back, now watching the orangette very carefully. His fists drew up to his chest, not quite defensive yet, but at the ready, should he have to rely on their secondary method of taking out stress. He'd already ruled out the first, because he was damn sure the Visored would run him through before the smaller man would let himself be fucked.

"YOU. You are getting me booze. Guiness. The stuff Eamonn likes because somehow that's the shit I'm craving. I'm going to get the cigarettes. I easily pass for 21. You meet me underneath the Executioner's Hill, there's a room in the cliff. We fight, we drink, we smoke. _Then _I'll feel better," his smile was just this side of demented and his eyes had an _unholy _glow. "And I'll pick up a few other things along the way."

The grin that broke across the Sexta's face was nothing short of demonic. "_Ja, _und I vill still drink you under da table."

He shot off like a rocket into _sonido. _The laughter ringing through his inner world made Pantera roll her eyes, but her tail tip flicked in the lazy way of entertainment. The second he burst back into the First Division, most of the eyes were on him, but he ignored them all, especially the two females, his sight set on the Shinigami in the clogs.

"Oi! Hat-bastard! I need booze. Not sake. Where c'n I get it?"

"Now see here, Grimmjow!" Rukia tried to cut in, "What have you done with Ichigo?"

He turned the demonic grin on her, and growled, "Want a second hole ta go with the first one I gave ya?" She paled, but backed off, glaring, as the Sexta re-focused on Kisuke.

Urahara was hiding behind his fan, but the twinkle in his gray eyes was unmistakable. "You're being silly Ruki-chan. I can feel Kurosaki-kun's reiatsu myself, and he's at one of the stores. As for non-sake, I'm afraid you'll have to go to the human world, panther-kun," he told him before snapping his fan shut. "Where would you like to go? I can open a portal to whichever country you'd prefer."

How his grin got wider, or more evil, seemed to be impossible, but it did, "Ireland."

One blond eyebrow went up even as, with a gesture, he opened up the desired access. "Oh my. Well, I feel it only fair to warn you Kurosaki-kun has developed an...exceptionally high tolerance for even very strong alcohols. Shunsui took him out...regardless. Go for the Back Stuff," he added with a wink.

"Heh..." Grimmjow started into the gate, and gave the former captain a final look over his shoulder, "It's th' only thing m'_Liebhaber _likes." Then he was through the portal and into the human world.

Behind him Rukia gasped at Kisuke, "Is it really safe to let him loose in the World of the Living without supervision!? We don't even have any Shinigami in Ireland right now!"

"Rukia-chan. I normally _so_ hate this, really I do. More than you know. But for the sake of our beloved Ichi-chan, I'm going to..." he shuddered, "_speak plainly_. Grimmjow slipped off. Ichigo went not two minutes after. Their reiatsus meshed, so they presumably talked. Then they split up after several emotionally-connected fluctuations and Grimmjow comes in asking where to get non-Japanese booze while Ichigo hits up the only shop in all Seireitei that caters to foreign souls. Presumably Ichigo sent him, and whatever he promised that cause Grimmjow there to immediately jump to do his bidding must be something non-harmful, because we all know Ichi wouldn't put us in danger after just taking us out of danger...yet _again_. There probably isn't a goddamn thing wrong with the situation and any interference from the likes of us is likely to be violently rebuffed by both parties. So, Ruki-chan, much as I adore to play and much as I like you, for once I am going to be very, very clear: _butt. Out._ Before you get hurt."

With that, he flipped his fan back open and wandered off, whistling cheerily.

Rukia fish-mouthed for several minutes before Renji slipped an arm around her shoulders and directed her back to where Orihime, Sado, and Uryuu were clustered. She tried multiple times to say something but her best friend just shook his head, pointed glances at where her brother was conversing with Shunsui and Juushiro cut off any complaint she may have had, reminding her and everyone around her what a fiasco it had been when she and the SWA had been involved in meddling in the captain of the Sixth's love life. Everyone in the small circle shuddered and Rukia gave up.

In the Living World, Grimmjow cockily strode out of the pub, beaming at his ability to ask for exactly what he knew his treasure would want. Then it occurred to him that though Kisuke had provided a way out of Seireitei, he had not given the Sexta a way back. He contemplated it for a moment, wondering just how much chaos it would cause if he ripped a Garganta, and decided that if he was going to do it, it'd probably be a better idea for him to rip it straight into the subterranean room Ichigo had mentioned. A spark of irony ran through his mind as he did it, and the shit-eating grin he wore when he stepped back into Soul Society spoke volumes to just how much fun this was going to be.

Ichigo was there, lit cigarette already in the corner of his mouth, and sorting through several packages, seated at a western-style table. A free chair was waiting on the other side, but before Grimmjow could sit down he seemed to finish sorting and took a bag, carrying it by his fingers and letting his drape down his shoulder the way he carried his backpack in this life and the way he'd carried the bags of coal in the previous one. That had been one habit that carried. With the bag, he disappeared behind a rock and Shinigami robes came flying out from where he'd disappeared to. This was followed by the rustle of the bag.

A sky blue eyebrow raised but content that his treasure was doing something that wouldn't hurt him, the Arrancar strode to the table, setting the case of Guiness on the ground next to it. He glared at it for a moment. Pity they could ask the midget Shinigami to chill it off for them...the last couple of bottles would be warm by the time they were finished with it. He shrugged and took his seat, stealing a cigarette from the pack on the table. The first inhale of nicotine after several decades really took him back to the last time they'd sat at a table like this, though that had been considerably more noisy, and he'd been, dare he say it, shy around so many of his treasure's countrymen.

Ichigo emerged about ten minutes later in a pageboy cap, trousers, a simple white undershirt, and suspenders. This was the outfit that felt _right _for some reason. But the damn suspenders, _ow_! "Dear christ jesus, I don't know why th'fuck I feel compelled t'wear this, bu' since I am..." He shrugged, trying to adjust the damn things, and wound up picking at them, yelping when he managed to snap himself painfully. What the clothes couldn't quite hide, though, was his youth. He had all the same muscles, same clothes, same hair, even sometimes the same accent. But he was only eighteen and it showed. His face hadn't yet gained the full sharpness of maturity, though it was well on its way, before his time really. He didn't have those certain small details he would later; close as he came, he wasn't an _exact _match to Eamonn. But he was close enough to stop Gunter's heart and make his mental gears grind for a minute.

"That's cuz yer wearin' 'em wrong." Grimmjow scoffed, holding his smoke in his teeth. He gave a nod of his head, "C'mere."

He blinked, twisting to look. "I am?" He came over, scowling a bit. "How the fuck do you wear _suspenders _wrong..."

The blunette laughed and slid one off of Ichigo's shoulder, so it hung down loose, then lengthened the other with a deft slide. "There. Better, _ja_?"

"Dunno, probably." He put that one back on his shoulder, then sighed as they settled with another shrug. "Mm, yes, better. But I gotta have both on, otherwise I feel underdressed somehow." He rubbed his head and chuckled. "You bring what I want?"

"O'course." He shook his head with a chuckle. Then bent and pulled the first of many bottles from the box. "_Immer wählerisch mein Schatz._"

"I feel I oughter know what tha' means, but I don' feel offended sah I'm inclined not tah care," he decided aloud as he produced two pint glasses from apparently nowhere. "Accordin' tah m'instinct an' urges, we drink these 'til we're 'bout ready ta fall down. Bu' we get a pint b'fore we fight ta take th'edge off."

Grimmjow dug into his pocket and pulled out a roll of binding tape to set on the table between them. "Joo vill vant to wrap your knuckles. Othervise it vill hurt more."

Ichigo looked at the roll like it was a strange foreign animal. His brows furrowed, then one of them rose, and he looked up at Grimmjow. "An' what in the livin' hell am I supposed to do with that?" Bare-knuckle brawling, street-fighting, and swordplay was all he knew. Binding his hands? The thought had never even occurred.

In what appeared to be a single motion, but was really just well-practiced, the deceased German snubbed out his cigarette, downed the last of his first drink, and stood to his feet, arms out to either side. "Feh. Hit me. Don't think about it too much, jus'..." He shrugged, "hit me."

The eyebrow went higher. "...Ooohkay." He downed the last of his own drink, pinched out the ember of his own smoke, and got up. Then he made a bit of an odd gesture though- he swept his fingers across the front and back of both hands, as though checking for something. He was- checking for rings. He'd used to wear two small ones, but quickly learned they did a lot of collateral damage he didn't want, both to himself and his opponent. Even now, though he fought nearly exclusively with the sword, the habit was too ingrained. Then he threw the first punch, a solid one to the solar plexus.

The smack of impact resounded around the training room, followed by the sound of teeth being sucked. Azure and cerulean eyes glanced down, then back up again. "_Ja, und_ how's that feel fer ya?"

He flexed his hand, looking speculative. "...Odd. Feels like...this sounds so stupid...feels like my fist should be bigger. And you somehow feel less...giving? No, more solid. Yes. More solid than I'm used to." He gnawed on a knuckle. "How interesting...it must be the reiatsu levels. You're so saturated that compared to humans it takes so much more force..." he suddenly blinked. Then grinned. The dementia was back. "_I don't have to hold back_._"_ Suddenly wild brown eyes shot up to his. _"You're not **breakable**."_

"So, now ya believe me. Feh. Took ya long enough." Grimmjow grabbed the tape and held it out. "It's why ya always wrapped yer hands. Feh. Featherweight like ya? Never could hit me straight out fer nothin'."

He again looked at the thing as a foriegn object. "Grimmjow, that's Eamonn yer talkin' 'bout. I've never wrapped m'hands in my feckin' life." He held up his hands, backs toward him. "See alla th'scars?"

"_Ja._ I'm th' only one he ever wrapped his hands fer. Or would ya like ta try it wi'out, like he did th' first time?" The Sexta leered.

He stared. "...I don' know." He flexed his fingers again, frowning. "I've never been able t'fight wit' m'full strength yanno. Bein' half Shinigami an' all. I was always too strong fer humans."

Fully aware that he was talking about things that he really shouldn't have been, the Espada shrugged, dismissing both Ichigo's statement and the murmur of caution from Pantera. If Eamonn was really inside the Visored's head, and he could get back to what they had so many years ago, who cared about rules? "In New York, they said he was a demon, fought longer, harder, an' faster in th' ring than any other potato head in th' city. O'course, they never met me. By then, I was already workin' fer Jonah."

Ichigo's eye twitched. "JONAS. His bloody feckin' name was _JONAS_." He appeared almost bristled and stuck out his hands. "Wrap 'em then."

Grimmjow threw his head back, laughing in a way he hadn't since then. The sound echoed, full-bodied and hearty, around the cavern. "Give 'em here." He bound the first, tight but not so it would cut off circulation, "Flex it." When the ginger did so, he nodded and took the other one to give it the same treatment. "Now," He brought his own fists up to guard, one near his mask, the other out such that his bicep bulged and his knuckles cracked. "Hit me fer real."

* * *

**A/N 2:** Translations

Gaelic:

_Iúl dúinn dul! na naomh-damanta salach heiseán!_ - let us go! saints-damned filthy Hessian!

_Agam nach bhféadfaí diúltú ach an deis do amháin breathnú deireanach ar mo leannán ... - _I just couldn't refuse the chance for one final look at my lover.

German:

_Sie können nicht weg sein! Ich verlor dich einmal, und ficken, wenn ich Sie wieder verlieren werde. Verdammt noch mal wieder hier, Eamonn!_ - You can't be gone! I lost you once, and fuck if I'm going to lose you again. God damn it get back here, Eamonn!

The rest you should be able to figure out on your own from the context around them. XD


End file.
